At the bottom of the stairs, the door to the garage was propped open with a wooden wedge.

A draft of freezing winter air blew into the stairwell, carrying the smell of exhaust and wet snow.

I peered through the crack in the door.

The garage was huge, its concrete pillars casting long, dark shadows under the emergency lights.

A single car was idling near the exit ramp, its headlights cutting through the grey exhaust fumes.

I saw two figures standing near the rear of the car.

One was tall, wearing a dark wool coat.

The other was shorter, holding something metallic in his hand.

“You don’t understand, Richard,” Ethan’s voice echoed through the concrete space.

I stopped.

It wasn’t Brenner standing there.

It was Richard Vance, his expensive suit covered in wet snow.

He had escaped the police, or he had never been in custody to begin with.

“I understand perfectly, Ethan,” Vance said, his voice sharp and cold.

“You thought you could destroy me with those files.”

“But you forgot who really owns the keys to those accounts.”